Little Brother's Life
by AppleA
Summary: Well, since no one's shot me yet, the crackfic continues! :D A small collection of life at 221b if they pulled off "Brother O Brother". Look, the first one's a 221b! I shall endevor to keep it in chronological order. :D
1. The Generation Grumpyness

"Tell me, Watson, why, if you are the younger brother, did you originally receive your Fathers name? "

Watson looked up, startled from a medical journal he was endeavoring to memorize.

"Hmmm? What? Um, if you must know, when my mother was having my brother, she almost didn't pull through. In a fit of frenzy, my father promised she could name the baby "Whatever the deuce you wish!". My mother remembered that and once she and my brother were out of danger she triumphantly named him John." He blinked.

"At least, that's my Mother's version. My Father just grunted and said that he had read too much Shakespeare and History, and later when it came to my name he just got "too dammed lazy to think of another name."' He chuckled quietly. "Mentioning that subject was the one sure way to get him grumpy all day." He continued to read the medical journal, occasionally chuckling at the memory.

Sherlock Holmes went quietly back to his chemical experiment, glad to get his information but happier to get a smile from Henry…no, _Watson's_ face. _I can't allow myself to call him Henry, even in my thoughts. It might slip out accidentally if I get too in the habit of calling him "Henry"_... _although the name's not bad. _


	2. Prescriptions

Slightly melancholy, this one. :(

I've always wondered why Holmes blatantly ignores Watson's advice. That also caused the question to be raised about how our gentle Doctor felt about it.

* * *

He studied, and studied some more.

He stayed up all night reading medical journals as Holmes was off Heaven-knew where.

He snuck into classes, his heart in his mouth.

He volunteered under a pseudonym at a hospital on the far side of town.

He forced himself to read until his eyes became red and he couldn't tell how many fingers he was holding up.

He did it all out of fear of failure. He feared to fail, not himself, but Holmes.

He tried so desperately to never let him down.

So when he finally got the courage to talk to Holmes about his cocaine use, his heart nearly broke at the sarcastic tone. "I'm sure I'll be forgiven if I don't take your advice Watson. After all, you must admit you're not a doctor." His heart throbbed brokenly to the odd tempo of Holmes's chuckle, and he silently left to go upstairs, his leg jarring him painfully.

He told himself that his leg was the reason for his tears.


	3. The Blind Patient

Last night's argument from Holme's point of veiw. Poor poor lost Holmes. xD

* * *

Bah. No cases in over three weeks.

Nothing to do.

Watson's been gone at all hours. I've got nothing to distract me.

If only I had someone to talk to- anything to drive the ennui away! Normally I hate to talk to anyone, for most people blather on about the most inane things. But Watson can follow a discussion quite intelligently when I can hunt him up. He has the remarkable gift of knowing exactly when to end the conversation too. He's becoming quite entertaining, quite a remarkable surprise. I had expected a flat mate to merely perform the role of supplementing a share of the rent.

I'm frequently glad I refused to follow Mycroft's advice. My cases have brought me nothing but entertainment, money, and a pleasant flat mate. The few bullets and enemies are nothing but an exciting spice. Ah how I miss that spice! I've found it woefully missing in the last week, so I've been forced to add my own 7-percent spice.

I languidly wonder if that as a mistake, for Watson comes in, and I look forward to a stimulating talk with him. Poor chap seemed rather nervous. After looking at his clothes, boots, and face (Watson has a remarkably open face, I find that refreshing) I deduced that nothing had happened to-day to make him so agitated, so it appeared he was nervous about something he was going to say to me. My curiosity piqued, I waited with no small interest until he decided to speak, in a nervous stutter about my cocaine habit. I waved that aside with a marvelous counter-attack. I had been hoping for just such a debate, he really was such a good debater that he sometimes even gave me a run for my money. I was most put out then, when he abruptly discontinued his tirade to retire to his room. Ah well, at least he has left me with a puzzle to his distinctive behavior.


	4. A First Realization

What a fool I have been!

After Watson hastily retreated to his room, I had waited for a few moments puzzling over his behavior. Once I finally, the dullard that I am, figured out something must be wrong with my flat-mate, I followed him up to his room. I was such a fool that I nearly knocked on his door to ask him what was wrong. How could I have missed the reason! My heart stopped hen I heard his sobs. "I'll never be good enough…not for dad…not for John…not for him…I fail at everything I do…I tried so hard…but he's right…I'm just an impostor…a failure…" His broken whispers chilled my marrow as I frantically tried to remember _just exactly what I had said_. I nearly kicked myself when I finally broke through the cocaine-cloud. What was I thinking saying that to him? He had enough scars in his life! Here he was, trying so hard, and I managed to completely destroy all the self-confidence he's been slowly gathering after that…ordeal with his brother. How insensitive…foolish…idiotic…

The next day I did something I'd only done five times in my life. I apologized.


	5. Two for the Price of One

"There shall be some fun if they both are put on the case…"

* * *

Damn it! Why did that insufferable Gregson get put on the same case as me! Now I'll have to deal with both of them…that arrogant Mr. Holmes and that pompous windbag Gregson…

* * *

As a representative of the Law, I am above vulgar swearing. As one pissed-off man, I'm swearing like a blacksmith. Of course, all the world see's is my professional side and my swearing is not vocalized. My superiors are quite impressed with my restrained tongue, and I know the men are personally keeping bets for how long I can go without swearing. But why in the name of God's Sacred Pinky did I have to be put on the case with that imbecile_ Lestrade_?

* * *

The Chief of Inspectors wearily rubbed his forehead as young Patterson came in for disciplinary. The poor man looked like a rabbit with a tic.

"Sit down, and for God's sake stop that twitching. I've had enough of it from Gregson." Patterson settled down as he looked at the Chief's face.

"Gregson sir? Is he still trying not to swear?"

The Chief nodded grimly. "And Lestrade wouldn't _stop_ swearing."

The younger man's eyes widened in sympathy. "You had _both _of them- _in the same room_?"

The throbbing still beat fiercely, even after 15 minutes.

"Aye."

* * *

"Now Watson, I'm going to ask that you remain perfectly silent during this investigation. Say nothing unless I ask it of you. And for goodness sakes, only talk to Lestrade or Gregson when they talk to you first, and only talk to the Inspector talking to you."

" Why, yes Holmes. Certainly." I'm sure my bemused facial features expressed my thoughts about such orders, however I intended to follow them out to the very letter.

* * *

"My God Holmes!"

"Yes, it was an intriguing puzzle, wasn't it?"

"Holmes, you were simply remarkable. Your reasoning was flawless. But you know that's _not what the deuce I'm talking about_. "

"Hmmm."

"Holmes, I find it in bad taste not to warn me Inspector, er, _Inspectors _Gregson and Lestrade were the _same person_."

Holmes chuckled. "But the look on your face my boy was priceless."

* * *

G. Lestrade? C'mon, I can't have been the only one to have noticed that, can I?

So as you can see, I've dragged another to characters down into crackfic. In case anyone's wondering, when his shoulders are hunched and he sucks in his stomach, he's Lestrade. When his shoulders are out and swaggering, his belly leading the way, he's Gregson. ;D


	6. All Hunters Are Cats

I slid the needle home, giving a small sigh. Now here came the bliss, the relief…the…_urge to play with the curtain tassels_?

* * *

Volunteer work at Bart's had been grueling. The medical world was in an uproar, apparently some insidious person had contaminated a large supply of cocaine with a hallucinogen. Not even the hospital supplies had been free from suspect! The entire day had been spent corralling befuddled patients under every sort of confusion, from thinking the nurses were professional yodelers to one memorable man thinking he was a bull elephant. As I opened the door, I made a mental note to check Holmes's supply. I stared in shock at the sight that greeted me once I got the door fully open. The sight of Sherlock Holmes on the floor pouncing on dust-bunnies was one not even my creative brain could reason with. _I guess that's the answer to my question then…_

* * *

_Pounce…stalk…pounce…bat…purr…climb…stalk…pounce…stop! Listen…loud... door…man… _"Holmes, can you hear me?" _Too close…hiss…flee…den…hide…hole…slink…small…safe_…

* * *

_Oh God, Holmes thinks he's a cat. _I groaned. He was completely unresponsive to my questions until I got close, and then he hissed at me, **Sherlock Holmes** _hissed _at me! And then the worst happened. He fled past me, heedless of my grabbing at his coattails, and made it into his room before I got to my feet. My impromptu experience with this hallucinogen at St. Bart's today told me that the worst possible scenario was a patient managing to stash themselves where it would be difficult and necessary to use brute force to get them out. Brute force was not an option, as it seemed to just throw the patient deeper into their delusions. I quickly followed him into his room to find him slinking into an opening behind his bed I never even noticed. Fortunately, he seemed not to remember how to work a door, and I could see him crouching in a small cavern big enough for a man to kneel in. All the patients had responded to soft words the best, but first I needed to use whatever step necessary to get him out of there."Holmes, can you here me?" His eyes positively gleamed back, his face set in a feline snarl. I settled back on my heels to give him more breathing space. "Holmes…do you know who I am?" No response. He was not coming out anytime soon. So in a last act of desperation I crooned "Here kitty kitty…would you like some milk kitty?"

* * *

_Yum…milk…slurp…lap…slurp…lap…purr_

* * *

"Good God Watson, I have the most raging head ache." Watson looked up from his morning paper with the oddest look on his face. "Holmes, let this be a warning to you. The reason for your head ache is that damnable cocaine." I arched my eyebrow in surprise…although my last memory was of sliding the plunger home…"A tainted shipment came in, and it was your bad luck to have bought some. Can you remember anything of what you did yesterday?" It was with some trepidation that I responded "I'm afraid not…erm…Watson, I didn't do anything embarrassing did I?" Watson studied my face for a moment before he answered.

"Holmes, I do believe I can't answer that in good conscious."

* * *

Three Am last night...woke up with a start and scribbled that prompt to myself on a sticky note, on the mirror, with a highlighter, _in the dark_. Praise me for my mad late night sleepy writing skills, I only wrote on my mirror once and the rest was perfectly legible except for the last word. xP


	7. Oops

A/N: Sorry it's so short. xP

Holmes isn't perfect you know.

* * *

As soon as Killer Evans pulled the trigger, I pulled mine.

My last though before I heard Watson fall next to me was "_Oops…"_

There was no time to check on him, as Killer Evans fired another shot and turned to flee.

I pounced and used my gun as a club, my heart in my mouth.

As soon as he was out, I ran to Watson's side.

Never again would I forget load my gun.

* * *

"But Holmes, why did you shoot? What stayed your hand?"

I looked up from Watson's leg to his face, his brow slightly furrowed. I squashed the urge to blush. After a few trips to the shooting gallery, Watson showed himself to be as handy with a gun like the souldier he was pretending to be, be able to keep it not only ready and clean, but being a crack shot too. While I, who had grown up practicing shooting and could remember the smallest details about a man's ear, was a fairley good shot and a horrible gun-keeper. If I weren't using it so often and being forced to remember it, I would have expected it to have disintergrated by now.

I almost squirmed slightly. I couldn't bear the thought of Watson laughing at me, which he would be assured to do, even though he was possibly the kindess person I'd ever met. (Which halted or slowed his ability to be a good detective. Sometimes it's incredibly annoying. Others it's his best quality.) So after I made sure everything was safe, Evans secured, Watson out of mortal peril, I nochanlontly replied to his question on why I didn't shoot with a cool look to Evans, not wanting to look at Watson's honest face. "I promised to see him on the docks. The families of the men he slaughtered have to be given more than a vigilante justice. And dying in battle is too good for him." Mr brow darkened as I mentally added _A quick deaths too good for the man that nearly took Watson._


End file.
